To these kids, America and Grandma's backyard are like a fantasy wonderland. Grass and space and bikes and balls and icecream that seems to flow like water from a fountain. And sometimes I think they might be right, when the sunlight is streaming in and the cottonwood blows like a snowstorm across the wafts of light and the peonies lounge against the garden fence, their heads lolling with the weight of their beauty and it feels like a story somewhere that is not my life, like a summer that was written in a script and we just stepped into it for a moment in time.
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